The Missing Days
by Modrona
Summary: Vignettes of the days missing between coronation and Crawler. Charting the changing relationship between the new queen and the former king. Will be very M-rated royalcest, don't read if it's not your bag. I own none of these characters or the setting.
1. 365

**The Missing Days**

 **365**

"All stand to attention, for the Queen of Albion."

Elsbeth does not wonder who Walter means: they are all turning to look at her, and even if they were not, the crown is heavy. As if she could forget its weight resting on her brow. She moves with purposeful majesty. It's not natural; she'd rather jog around all the time, or amble on the rare occasions she's feeling lazy. But now she must act regally, so she moves as if the whole world will wait for her. She does not look anywhere but straight ahead as she walks, keeping her eyes on the throne. There's a point, just before she reaches it, when Logan is on her right, and Walter on her left. She's aware of both their gazes on her, and how expectant they are. She's not sure what they expect. Two days ago, it would have been unquestioned: Logan would be executed. He deserved nothing less.

But those words have been rolling around her head for days now. She thought she banished them, as Walter had—until that night, when she went to bed, and they were still there. He hadn't looked like a tyrant. He hadn't raged, or pleaded for his life, and he had actually _sheathed_ his sword when he saw it was her.

" _You've finally become the woman I always wanted you to be."_

Even when she'd flung her anger at him, as she'd wanted to for so long, he remained calm; if not cocky, then still sure of himself. She knows Logan, and there was underlying method to his madness. As well as a kind of bitter pride. She looks at him briefly now; he's looking at her, and there's that look again. Like she's where she's supposed to be.

" _Did it ever occur to you that I may have had good reason to be?"_

Walter claimed not to be interested in the reasons. Elsbeth is. Logan has something to tell them, to tell _her_. She wants to know what could drive the man who gave her piggybacks around the castle as a little girl (on demand, and she demanded them quite a lot) to complete despotism.

" _Cower behind ignorance if you will, but my sister deserves to know the truth."_

Walter told him to save it for the trial… Well, the trial is here. She's presiding over it, ready to make a judgement. Along with how heavy the crown is, she can feel the weight of Logan's life in her hands.

"Logan, former King of Albion, you stand accused today of crimes against the kingdom and its people. Those who brought you to justice will now speak."

She thinks she knows what the others will say. Sabine is a believer in the old ways, in eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth. Ben has a personal grudge to settle—Major Swift was his friend and mentor. Page is an idealist. So even though she knows how badly Bowerstone has suffered for Logan, Elsbeth doubts she will advocate his death. She will want to rise above him. Kalin, she isn't sure. She is a very compassionate and seemingly gentle woman, so perhaps she, too, will advise mercy.

Sure enough, the leader of the Dwellers speaks angrily, finger out and stabbing accusatorily at Logan. "There's not a soul alive in the kingdom who hasn't suffered for his glory, and plenty who've died for it. I says, let him have some death of his own!"

Ben seems to think he needs to justify himself; he doesn't. Elsbeth completely agrees with him. He slices at the air with his arm, rage on his face. "Look, I'm not one for lopping people's heads off," he says, "but we saw Major Swift executed, like it was a bloody circus act! He deserves nothing less as far as I'm concerned."

Elsbeth feels her mind changing as she listens. It's true, she knows, and he has a very good point. She still remembers that day in the rain, the way the major was paraded out in front of Bowerstone's citizens, barefoot and chained, and then shot the way someone would put down a dog. He wasn't even given the honour of a private death by firing squad, as would have been fitting for a military officer. Even if Logan was going to sentence him to death no matter what, he should have at least done him that dignity. It was unnecessarily cruel. When Page steps forward, the voice of reason and principle, the Queen no longer wants to listen.

"But aren't we better than that?" the resistance leader asks, her voice low and calm. "Isn't that why we fought to be here now? I've seen what Logan has done to this city—people starving to death, children forced to work, but killing him now won't solve anything."

Won't it? Maybe not. It won't bring back all those people who've died, and she can correct all those wrongs he's done to the city. She can open schools and end child labour—and she could do all of those things whether he's dead or alive. She could lock him up for the rest of his life, if she wanted to. She wouldn't actually have to kill her own brother to punish him. Kalin, she thinks, Kalin will have the deciding vote. She's undoubtedly the wisest here … even if she is not impartial.

The leader of the Aurorans speaks in her musical, exotic voice. "It is not my place to decide his fate, but his betrayal condemned many of my people to death. He promised us salvation, and then left us to face the Darkness alone."

Before anyone can process that, Logan speaks. His dark gaze is fixed on his sister, and his voice is loud and clear. "I had good reason to break that promise, and I had good reason for the crimes you claim I committed," he declares, and Elsbeth's heart skips several beats. _Please_ let that reason be as good as he claims. "The day I returned to Albion, I received a visit from a blind seer. Theresa, our father's guide."

At this, her eyes widen; she has assumed that only Heroes would be able to see or be contacted by Theresa. Elsbeth thinks of her as _her_ seer now, and it's a shock to hear she appeared to Logan too. Why?

"She showed me the future of this kingdom: the Darkness in Aurora is coming _here_. Bringing death, destruction, the _end_ of our way of life!"

Fear prickles through the throne room—even those who have no idea what Logan is speaking of are afraid of it now. She sees Walter go tense with it, and feels all the hair at the back of her neck rise. The way that thing _laughed_ …

Logan lowers his voice now, pleading his case with no trace of an actual plea in his voice. "The sacrifices I had to make, I did them to protect Albion. If a few had to suffer, it was to build an army. If a few had to die, it was to save a country. I have spent _years_ preparing for this attack. Let me stand by your side now, and all my soldiers will be yours to command." He takes one step forwards, one gloved hand extending a few inches towards her. "Let us face the coming Darkness, together."

Frozen in indecision, Elsbeth suddenly doesn't know what to do. She'd been geared up to refuse any explanation or excuse he might make, but now he's chosen the only one she cannot ignore.

Walter swallows. "If this is true, if it's really coming here … we are all in grave danger."

"You have the power over life and death, sister. Now choose."

The words are as cruel now as they were then, and she wants to hit him. No matter how long _she's_ been preparing for this, it seems he's been preparing her for it longer. He'd used Elliot's life to teach her a _lesson_? That's monstrous! How could he be that cold-blooded? And now he wants her to do the same thing again? He must know she can't, surely? He must know that killing Elliot—and she did, she may as well have pulled the trigger herself—haunts her. Will probably continue to do so for the rest of her life, and she cannot possibly handle the blood of someone else she has loved on her hands. And Page has a point. She wants to be the opposite kind of monarch to Logan, so that begins with not being vindictive.

"This is not the time for revenge," she says, ironing out the faintest traces of tremble in her voice. She stands. "We need your help, Logan."

The crowd mutter and shout, but it's impossible to say whether they approve or upbraid her choice. "The Queen has made her decision," Walter declares. "Logan's life will be spared."

There's one flash of emotion on her brother's face, and it looks mostly like utter disbelief. He hasn't expected to be forgiven. He's been bracing himself for death from the moment the revolution began. Did he only want to warn her? Did he think it was his only task? She almost gives in to the urge to hit him then, tell him he's the most stupid man that ever lived. When she gets to him though, he speaks again.

"I know you will never forgive me for the things I've done. You told me so once, remember?"

She scowls at him. But she just has, is that his point? "Of course I do."

"But what matters now is that we defend our land." He swallows, and sighs, and suddenly looks much lighter. "The castle is yours, and so is the throne. I'm glad to be rid of them."


	2. 364

**These chapters will be of varying length, some over 1000, some less than 100.**

 **364**

It's less than twenty four hours before the first attempt is made on Logan's life. Elsbeth anticipated it, and has ordered the new Elite Soldiers to guard him with extra diligence. It has taken a direct order from her to the captain of that squad, since he was adamant that their job was to protect the current monarch, not the ex. Elsbeth doesn't care. She is more than capable of taking care of herself, and she did not make the decision to spare Logan's life lightly.

It's one of the servants, a maid whose little boy was killed in an industrial accident. She doesn't try to do it subtly; she just attacks him with a carving knife stolen from the kitchens. The guard are there, they stop it, Logan doesn't have a scratch on him.

Elsbeth doesn't see the attack, and the would-be assassin is more distraught than anything. She sends the woman home without charge, and with assurances that she will make sure what happened to her son never happens again.

The woman spits in her face, literally, asking with a snarl, "What good is that to me?"


	3. 357

**357**

A week later, the protests outside Bowerstone Castle have died down a little. Elsbeth has done nothing to enforce that, and she has even spoken to the leaders of the protest, apologetically but firmly explaining that her mind is made up. She won't listen to their calls for a retrial of Logan. She isn't going to kill him. Seeing that their Queen has a will of iron, if not a fist, most of her people have accepted and submitted to it.


	4. 350

**350**

Hobson and Walter have gone over it a hundred times with the Queen now, but even they cannot whittle the mathematics down any more. To raise an army large enough to defend Albion, the treasury needs to be more than full. At the moment it is pathetically empty. Elsbeth feels her head spin with the numbers. Six and a half _million_ gold. How can she even begin to raise so much? There are the traditional ways, as Hobson constantly reminds her. Tax rises. Benefit cuts. Increase the pace of industrialisation. Cut all possible public service expenditures. Her new butler seems not to understand that she cannot simply break all of the promises she has made. In fact he seems very disappointed that she does not even want to consider making things worse for her people.

Elsbeth wants to stab him already.


	5. 345

**345**

She attends the opening of the new Bowerstone School today. The children are happy, but slow-witted and stupid and some even have the nerve to look _bored_ by their new education. She wants to shout at them that they can get out and go back to working in that blasted factory, if they're not going to appreciate what a gift education is. Damn it, this was _expensive._ This has not only drained her treasury, this has emptied it.

 _You better bloody learn something, you ungrateful little twerps_ , she snarls silently at them, her thoughts uncharacteristically vicious. _This could end up costing you your lives._

But she cuts the ribbon and she smiles, and ruffles hair. She even signs autographs.


	6. 339

**339**

Doesn't she have something better to do? Doesn't she _really_ have _anything_ better to fucking do, than decide on some damn _curtains_?!


	7. 327

**327**

She's walking in the gardens after midnight that night, too hungry to sleep and too stressed to want to eat.

The pile of gold in the treasury is pathetically small, and she has not fulfilled even a quarter of the promises she's made over the past year. Money _is_ coming in, mostly from her own pocket, and while she does not resent that, it is not coming in fast enough. She needs to be more careful; needs to invest. But in what? Property is good, but houses need repairing and need maintenance. Shops don't, but they are expensive to buy. There can't be that many undiscovered caches of gold dotted around Albion, even if her dog is amazing in his talent of finding them.

And all the while, _the easy way_ is calling at her, beckoning with promises of riches and whispers that it'll be alright in the end, that history will forgive her even if her people won't. She can tax them. She can starve them. She can abandon them. If it's all in the name of the Greater Good, would it really be so bad?

The soft music of the fountain helps to relax her a little bit, the wind rustling through the leaves around her likewise. She's not alone—she's never really alone anymore—but the guards stationed at the exit of the castle know not to disturb her. She has her pistol, holstered at her hip, but it isn't loaded. She likes the gardens. It's one of the few places she gets a sense of peace, especially at night. Without the gardeners diligently working, and without the nobles wandering around, she can almost relax. Almost.

This is a benign type of darkness. It's soft and warm. It's the type of darkness she wants to go to sleep in rather than the type she wants to ward off with light. The stars help. They may not provide much illumination, but to have them up there, twinkling, is a comfort. They still shine. Whatever happens here in Albion, they will shine forever.

Her strangely happy thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They are quick strides, loud on the gravel path. In the shadows of the fountain, she remains unseen and unheard.

Logan walks right past her without ever knowing she is there. She watches him, curious and annoyed. Her solitude is disturbed now, and won't be salvaged. She should head inside, take a bath, go to bed. There is business to be done tomorrow. Lots of it. Serious business.

Except … where is he going?

Curiosity wins out over the two, and she follows. Carefully; she doesn't want to be seen for some reason that she can't understand. Stealth is not something she does very well. At all. She'd rather come barrelling out with sword and pistol in hand. Still, it seems to work. Logan makes no sign that he has noticed her presence, at any rate. In fact, he seems very caught up with his own strange behaviour.

He has reached the steps to their father's tomb now. He pauses at the top, toes just jutting out over the top step, like a diver about to jump. She even imagines that he rocks forward slightly. He begins to go down the steps.

At the seventh one, he stops. Comes back up three. Goes back down to number twelve this time. Then back up to seven. Thirteen. Two. Nine.

Then he goes back up to the top again. His expression is frightening, and now Elsbeth is glad she is in the dark. He looks sad, hurt somehow, but above all angry. Furious. She has only ever seen such emotion in her brother's face once before: when she spared his life.


	8. 322

**322**

Five nights later, witnessing Logan do the same thing, Elsbeth decides to speak up.

"What are you doing?"

He jumps, hand going to the place where his sabre would be. Then, natural reflex checked, he peers into the gloom. "Elsbeth?"

"Who else?"

"I apologise," he says, tone scornful and not at all apologetic. "I didn't recognise you without that mutt at your feet."

She ignores that. "What are you doing, Logan?"

"How long have you been sitting here?"

"Long enough to see that little dance with the crypt steps. Is there a ball I've not been invited to, are you rehearsing?"

"No."

"I saw you do the same thing a few nights ago," she remarks.

Silence, then, "I'm trying to face Father."

She looks at him quizzically. "Father's dead, Logan."

He glares hard enough that she feels the force of it through the darkness. She moves over pointedly, making room for him on the stone seat. He's obligated by her rank—and his own courtesy, bred into him from birth—to sit, and then to explain.

"It would be easier if he lived still."

"If he lived, you would never have been King, and there would be nothing to explain." A pause, and she sighs. "So you need to apologise to his memory, is that it?"

"He fought to free our land of tyranny and oppression, Beth. And then I re-imposed both on the kingdom. How can I visit his tomb when I have spent years more or less spitting on it?"

She says nothing, unsure if he wants comfort and unwilling to offer it. He's not forgiven, even if sparing his life was the first step towards that.

"Why didn't you kill me?" His voice is despondent, sulky almost.

"What would it have achieved?" she asks.

"Your kingdom would have had an easier road to recovery."

"Did you want me to kill you?"

"I expected it."

"But did you desire it?" she persists.

"Yes."

"Then you're a coward," she declares, crisply, her voice stabbing into the night air. Logan does not flinch. Elsbeth stands, turning to go back into the castle. "I always took you for a brave man," she muses. "How strange that you should not be."

He is still unfailingly polite, even when she's insulting him. He also stands, and bows. "Goodnight, Your Majesty."

She snorts, then leaves him.


	9. 320

**320**

She does not witness, two days later, the resurrection of Logan's courage. She does not witness him lift his chin, straighten his spine and march down to their father's crypt.

Nor does she witness the bitter tears he weeps once there.


	10. 319

**319**

The ship waits for her in Bowerstone Harbour, and this time there will be no pursuit of gunships. She's packing, unsure of what she'll need. There's not much in the way of nice clothes—more weapons, potions and plenty of torches. She isn't counting on there not being a shipwreck by other means, and just in case, she wants to be able to take as much light with her as possible. She would not voluntarily go through that cavern again without it.

She intends to go alone this time, though now she's tempted to ask Ben to come with her. Walter won't; he trembles every time the word _Aurora_ is mentioned. No one says anything when he does, because they all respect him too much. Elsbeth has begun to worry about him though, especially in terms of how he will be able to cope when the Darkness comes. She suspects—and hopes—that he will be alright in the end. Give Walter something insubstantial and terrifying that cannot be touched, and he panics. Give him something substantial and terrifying that _can_ be, and he'll charge into battle with pistol blazing and hack at it until it wishes it had never bothered. His bravery is still unquestioned, especially by Elsbeth. She wants to take someone though, notwithstanding the dog. Someone who could talk back would be nice.

Ben, it transpires, is not available. He's in Mourningwood Fort again. It's not because he's been banished there (far from it), but because that's apparently the best place to train new recruits. Those that don't wet their pants at the sight of legions of Hollowmen are good enough. It is a shame; Elsbeth is fond of the handsome blond soldier, and believes she could even be more than fond if the right set of circumstances arose.

Page, of course, won't leave Bowerstone, so it looks as though the Queen will be travelling alone after all.

A knock on the door breaks into her morose thoughts, and she looks up to see Hobson bowing, some piece of jewellery in his hands. "Apologies for disturbing you, Your Majesty …"

"What is it?" she barks.

"Your brother has sent this for you."

She beckons him closer. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure, madam. It seems to be an ordinary bracelet to me, but there is a note."

She takes both the bracelet and the note from Hobson, then looks pointedly at the door when he doesn't leave. Honestly, does the man think she's just going to let him know the contents of her letters now?

The note, when she opens it, is brief and to the point, and written in her brother's strong, elegant script.

 _The bracelet is purported to ward off Sand Furies. Take care, sister._

Elsbeth smiles. She doesn't have to take it, and if not for the last sentence, he would be completely business-like. But he wants to keep her safe. It occurs to her that everyone else will tell her it probably attracts Sand Furies, that it'll drain her strength, that he can't possibly be trusted. Everyone else, she feels in this case, is wrong.

But just to be on the safe side, the Queen holds the bracelet out for her dog to sniff. The collie examines it closely, and then pronounces it safe with a quick woof and a wag of the tail. Satisfied with that, Elsbeth slips it over her wrist.


	11. 309

**309**

It turns out that the bracelet doesn't work, or at least not when one is exploring where the Sand Furies actually _live_. She doesn't really mind—it's not heavy, and it looks pretty. And she's discovered a new way of killing these desert bitches anyway.

Desert Star in hand, she safely departs Aurora, hoping that this diamond will give her treasury the vital injection of shiny, glittering life it so desperately needs.


	12. 301

**301**

When they walk into the study, both their expressions are uncharacteristically serious. Walter normally has a smile for her, and if Ben doesn't greet her with at least a wink then something must be wrong. Today he doesn't have a trace of levity on his features. Instead Walter looks like he is preparing himself for something rather painful, and Ben's face is curiously savage and triumphant.

"Your Majesty."

"Elsbeth."

She drops her fountain pen. "What's happened?"

"This."

Walter hands her an opened letter. The handwriting on it is easily identifiable as Logan's, and the Queen looks up with a frown.

"Read it before you berate us, please."

Frown still clouding her face, Elsbeth opened the envelope again, unfolding it to reveal the lines of script inside. It is not really a letter at all; it's a schedule of the guard patrols around the castle. Then there's a list of names, all of which Elsbeth recognises as belonging to her new Elite Guard. Not all of them are listed here, only a dozen or so. Underneath, underlined, is the word 'Potentials _'_ . Elsbeth turns the parchment over to look at the addressee: Marcus Knight. The captain of Logan's Elite Guard.

She puts the paper down with a concealed sigh. As soon as she does, Ben explodes into action, pacing up and down with his fists curled. "I told you – I _told_ you we should have killed the bastard!"

"Ben …"

"Well, at least you'll execute him now, won't you? The scum'll get what's coming to him now!"

"Ben."

"It was a good gesture, Elsbeth, letting him off, it was a noble thing to do, but if this is how the cun-"

"Major Finn!"

At the anger in his Queen's voice, Ben stops finally. Elsbeth looks at Walter, who has remained silent, his mouth in a grim, compressed line. "Is there any doubt as to what this is?"

"None, Your Majesty."

"And you think his intention is to …"

"Depose you and take back the throne, yes."

"Bloody hell."

Later, she is pacing.

"I thought Knight was dead? Didn't he die during the revolution?"

"Apparently not."

"What's the evidence against these others?" she asks.

"None so far, just their sympathies. We can't arrest them, but we can remove them from Your Majesty's guard."

"And what do you suggest I do about Logan?"

Ben smacks his fist into his palm. "Were you not listening, Beth?"

The glare she gives him is enough to tell him he has overstepped. No one calls her by that name. No one save one man, anyway.

Walter is more practical. "For the moment, we don't have enough to pin anything on him. It's up to you, how we act from here, Your Majesty, but clearly your life is in danger."

"It's always in danger," she replies dryly.

She cannot believe Logan would do this. He said he did not want the Crown, did not understand why she would spare him. Is this what he meant would happen if she did? She doesn't know. She thought she knew.

"Wait," she decides. "Observe him. Keep intercepting his letters. And find Marcus Knight."


	13. 284

**284**

"Your Majesty, Sir Walter Beck is here to see you," Hobson announces early one morning.

"Good. Ask him if he's breakfasted today—if not then he is more than welcome to join me. If he has then he may wait in the map room."

Hobson looks extremely disapproving at the idea of anyone lower in rank than an Earl sharing breakfast with the queen, but does usher Walter in a few moments later.

"Good morning, Walter."

"Good morning, Your Majesty. I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all. Business starts as soon as I wake up. Part of being Queen I suppose."

"Indeed. On that note, I have news: during the night, we finally tracked down Marcus Knight."

This is good news; it's been almost a month since the orders went out, and she has dispatched a (perhaps disproportionately) large number of men to find him. She even pulled Ben off training for a while to lead the search—for a while, and then quickly pulled him back onto it again. Page is far better suited to subtle tracking. And it looks as though she has been successful.

"Well done. Is he in the cells?"

"Um…no, Your Majesty."

She frowns. "If you've found him then why haven't you arrested him?"

Walter blows out his cheeks in a sigh. "He's holed up very well, Your Majesty."

"Holed up? What does that mean?"

"He has barricaded himself into the new electricity factory-"

"Power plant, Walter, it's called a 'power plant'."

"Whatever—he's holed up in there, very well protected by both the building and his own combat skills. He also seems to have an unlimited supply of ammunition. We've sent two squads in there, and they've either come back viciously wounded or not at all. That's twelve men, Elsbeth."

"So what you mean is, you need me to do it?"

"Of course, if you're busy then I can go in-"

"No, no," Elsbeth says, waving her hand.

She is smiling, and actually looking forward to a challenge. She knows how to kill, whether it's balverines, mercenaries or hobbes, but going into a combat situation with the express aim of _not_ killing her opponent is a new one. It should be fun.

Finishing her breakfast, she whistles to the dog and then goes on a run through Bowerstone, to Industrial. It's not hard to follow the sounds of gunfire and shouted orders once she gets to the electrical power plant, though neither cease when she gets there.

The lieutenant snaps to a wearied attention when she sees her. "My Queen!"

"You've made no progress?" she asks.

"None. Every man I send in there is shot down before he goes more than ten feet. I'm running out of options—we could starve him out, I suppose, but that's about all I can think of. I've only a finite number of men."

"The _kingdom_ only as a finite number of men," Elsbeth murmurs in reply. "But not to worry. I'm here to get Knight myself. Order your men to stand down."

His eyes widen at the apparent insanity of the command, but he's a military man, so doesn't question her. He nods, snaps out the orders, and his men stop firing, some looking especially relieved.

The lieutenant steps back. "Please be careful, ma'am. He'll be expecting something now we've gone quiet."

She draws her sword, checks its sharpness. "I will be."


	14. 282

**282**

"Your Majesty, Marcus Knight is finally … awake."

"Good. Have Sir Walter meet me in the dungeons with all the evidence he has," she orders Hobson, getting up from her supper. The dog gets up too, but she points back at the fireplace. "Stay."

He immediately obeys, but still manages to send her a betrayed look anyway before slinking back to the fire. For once, she doesn't care, and hurries down to the lower bowels of the castle. She is half-afraid that she will run into Logan, because she has no idea how she'll explain that, or even if she should explain anything. Thankfully there is no sign of him.

When she gets to the dungeon, Walter isn't there yet, so she faces Marcus Knight alone. She takes no small satisfaction in how terrible he looks; his arm is in a sling, his face is bruised, his lip is cut, and his eyes are almost swollen shut. And she's pretty sure he has at least three teeth missing.

"Your Highness," he greets her.

"I would have thought, after serving my brother for so long, you would know the correct way to address your Queen," she says frostily.

"I would," he agrees, "if the king's wife stood before me. You may be a princess, but you will always be a pretender to the throne."

"Is that why you plotted to replace me with Logan?"

"I have never plotted anything."

"We have evidence to the contrary," Walter's voice says from behind her, as he comes in. In his hand, he holds a stack of papers.

Knight is silent as Walter goes through the list slowly.

"Correspondence between yourself and Logan, some of which detail Her Majesty's security arrangements. Letters of support and encouragement from you to Logan. And in your own home, we found more. Chemicals used for making explosives. Threats. Treasonous material such as this."

Here he holds out a poster that makes a shiver go down Elsbeth's spine. It is hard not to feel a little disconcerted by it; the slogan is _DEATH TO THE TRAITOR!_ and the picture is equally uncompromising. It is her head. Just her head. On a pike. In the small print, the poster incites more revolution, tells her people to rise up against her in bloody glory. She does not believe many will take Knight up on the offer, but still.

"You've no proof I contributed to that," Knight says. "And in lieu of that, I am entitled to have whatever reading material I like in my possession, am I not? Was that not one of your new laws, Your Highness? The precious commodity of _liberty_?" He sneers the word out like it tastes bad.

"You may not have contributed to that one," Walter growls, "but we certainly have proof that you've written the next one!"

He has a draft copy of a similar looking poster, only this one depicts the oncoming darkness, the Crawler—and Logan, the only thing that can stand between in and Albion. _Return to your faithful King! The true ruler of Albion!_

Knight merely shrugs. "Again, a personal opinion."

"To claim anyone except the Queen is the rightful monarch -"

"I have no Queen," Knight interrupts. "Only a usurped King and a misguided Princess."

Walter's temper boils over, and he lashes out, catching Knight in the face with a fist. He flies backwards, coming to rest in a heap on the floor. Elsbeth catches the next blow. "No, Walter!"

"But-"

"Stop. This is not the way we treat prisoners. Not in _my_ kingdom."

He nods, and slowly lets his arm fall to his side. "Yes, Your Majesty."

They leave Knight to recover, but as they shut the door on him, Walter asks, "When shall I arrest Logan, my Queen?"

She hesitates. It has not escaped her notice that aside from one letter, they have little that is incriminating against Logan. That should mean nothing; he is a very clever man and he did not willingly hand over power. It is only logical that he should want the throne back. But logic is not what she is listening to. What she is listening to is that little, stubborn, insistent thought at the back of her mind that there is more to it. That Logan is not truly plotting against her. That he would not purposefully harm her. And, if he _is_ guilty of treason, then there is only one path she can then take — one she has already chosen _not_ to take. To be forced down it is an idea she finds galling.

"Not yet," she decides finally. "Gather more evidence. Evidence that spells out his guilt clearly."

Walter hides his surprise not well at all, and his bushy grey eyebrows shoot up. "I … Very well, Your Majesty. It will be done."


	15. 270

**270**

By the time she is due to rule over the fate of yet another ethnic minority in her kingdom, the evidence against him is irrefutable. Truth be told, it has been irrefutable for weeks now. It's been literally mounting up, a paper tower sitting on her desk and slowly getting a little more lopsided with every new sheaf added to it. Elsbeth has been studiously ignoring it, just as she has been studiously ignoring requests from Walter for a private audience. She knows what he will want to discuss.

When the stack topples over to land on the previously peacefully-sleeping dog, Elsbeth decides that perhaps enough is enough. Once the collie's whimpers and yelps have subsided, helped by his mistress's fingertips stroking his ears, she looks at the pathway of paper now strewn across her office floor. It was about two feet high, now it's about four feet long.

"Damn it all …" she mutters, rubbing her face roughly.

At the end of the path is the warrant for Logan's arrest. She picks up her pen and signs it in a hurried scrawl. Then she goes to kill balverines. It might soothe her conscience, though nothing can silence the voice that still stubbornly insists it can't be true.


	16. 265

**265**

There's no public response when he is arrested, but she can hear the quiet sigh of relief coming from her capital city anyway. She spends a sleepless night in bed, and gets up in the end before sunrise, wraps herself in a robe without dressing and goes down to the dungeons.

The guards look surprised when she enters, and snap to attention. "Your Majesty!"

"Will you gentlemen be so kind as to leave me with my brother?" she asks.

They both glance hesitantly toward the cell. Through the bars, Logan is also awake, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light from the gas lamps. He does not stir, does not speak, only watches.

"My Queen, we will of course do as you say, only …"

"I do not see what harm he can do me, if still locked in. He _is_ still locked in?"

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Well then."

Obviously not wanting to, but not having any way to stop her, the guards leave and close the door behind them. Elsbeth moves to Logan's cell. "Why would you do it?"

Silence.

"You told me you were glad to rid of the crown."

More silence.

She continues. "So I must assume that either you have changed your mind … or your guilt has got the best of you. Because, let's be honest, Logan, you are not a stupid man. And you know me well enough to know that I am not a stupid woman. You want me to kill you. I don't know what your reasoning is." She stills, facing him. "Tell me."

He draws in a long breath, through his nose. "Is that an order, my Queen?"

She puts her hands on the bars. "Don't be coy."

"I should be dead," he says simply. "You made the wrong decision; I am taking it from your hands. Treason is an offence with only one punishment according to the law."

"Then I'll change the law."

He stands, moving over to her. She feels like she is the one behind bars, with her jailer stalking toward her out of the gloom. Her heart beats wildly as his gloved hands cover hers. "You must not."

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do."

"Someone needs to."

"Not you. I have advisors, all I need from you is to be my brother."

"I will always be that."

She reaches through the bars, putting a hand to his cheek. "Then why are you working so hard to strip yourself from me?"

"It is for your protection."

He's said the wrong thing, and suddenly the shutters come down behind her eyes. She pulls her hands back and takes three steps away from him. "No. This is to appease your own feelings. You might feel guilt, Logan, but you will have to live with it. I'm ordering your release in the morning."

"I'll continue."

The threat is an empty one, and she knows it as well as he does. "It will never come to fruition though. You would never place me in real danger, any more than you already have by allowing me to become Queen. So: I am going to order your release in the morning. And we will have no more talk of treason."


	17. 259

**259**

Sure enough, there is no more talk of treason. Not from Logan, anyway. From Walter, and especially Ben; both are very vocal about the dangers of letting Logan go. She's no fool—she's no intention of letting him leave the castle and go traipsing around Albion. While she knows she is in no jeopardy from her brother, she wouldn't say she has that much faith in him either. And her people certainly don't. Her reasoning is that she cannot spare the expense of protecting him.

Logan's response is sardonic. "You need not lie to me, Elsbeth. While that is undoubtedly true, I am not expecting you to trust me."

"I do trust you!"

"I've no idea why, dear sister." This last is said almost, almost, with a smirk and a sneer.

Elsbeth ignores it. "I'm having Marcus Knight executed. _His_ treason was real enough."

At this, there is a flicker of concern, but not for Knight. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Is this to be your first?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "I beg your pardon? My first _what_?"

"Your first execution, I mean," her brother says, also colouring a little bit.

"Oh. Yes."

"Then consider carefully. As Queen, you can rescind most orders, should you wish to. This is one you cannot. It will be permanent, and it will be on your head."

"He's guilty, Logan. It is my responsibility to punish him."

"And so you should. But I want you to bear in mind all factors. Including the aftermath."

She dismisses his concern—unsure if it is concern after all, and not just patronisation. Logan does not mention it again on the occasions they meet, so she hopes he got the message. It isn't until she oversees the execution herself, as she feels she should, and those six rifles fire and Knight briefly splays himself against the wall before falling to his knees, that she understands what Logan means. The paper she sighed two days ago did not just hold her signature. It held a man's life. And now she does.

Does she regret it?

No, she decides. Killing Knight doesn't make her the same as Logan was when he was King—she had more than sufficient grounds for doing it, and evidence that if she let him live, he would be a danger to herself and others. Marcus Knight is not dead to make any political point. But he is dead, and he is dead due to her direct interference. She has had power over life and death before, but never quite like this.

She is not aware of the change it makes to her, but Logan is. Her face has always been pretty; now it becomes more than that, heavier, beautiful with gravity. She walks with new comfort in her monarchical role and is easier because of it. It makes him sad for her. Whatever trials she underwent to get to the revolution, there were still vestiges of his little sister under the determination and the fire. Now his little sister is gone. She'll laugh again, but she won't giggle. She'll cry, but she won't sob. She'll shout, but she won't yell. She'll still ask, but now she won't be unsure of the answer.

He's made her into this, and he's glad for the sake of Albion. But for Elsbeth … He's unsure if sacrificing the human for the Hero has been worth it. For Elsbeth, he thinks he might have destroyed her.


	18. 256

**256**

There is the shelter and orphanage to consider today, whether she wants to leave it as that—in which case it must cost fifty thousand of the treasury's precious gold pieces. The idea that Reaver proposes, of turning it into a whorehouse, is a bit amusing. She knows that many of the courtiers who would protest otherwise until they turn blue are hoping she will agree to his proposal. Judging by Reaver's estimates of how much a brothel would generate, that is certainly the case. If only to wipe the smiles from the faces of these sneering, snivelling puppies that prowl around her court, Elsbeth costs herself more than a million gold by refusing Reaver's proposal. Page is pleased.

It's made even funnier in the queen's mind by the next item on her agenda: what to do with the sewage. What amuses her is the idea of all of Reaver's prostitutes ending up in a literal pile of shit. Sewage on top of sewage. It is an inevitable by-product of industrialisation, and bad factory design and even worse housing. She is amazed there is not some kind of epidemic already running through Bowerstone. In order to prevent that being the case, she forks out the money for a sewage treatment plant.


	19. 244

**244**

"What do you think?"

"You do not need my opinion. Frankly I am at a loss as to why you have sought it out."

"I want it."

Logan sighs deeply, shakes his head. "I think it is a bad idea. I think it is very likely to spread panic, and if it does not, then it will irrevocably damage your reputation. Your people trust you. They believe you will lead them to safety and a secure future. Telling them to be prepared for something like this … it is indicative that you yourself do not believe victory is possible."

Elsbeth has been nodding slowly, but now she is going to disagree. "I think you're wrong."

"No surprises there," he replies dryly.

"They deserve to understand what is coming, Logan. As much as they can, anyway," she adds, with a little shiver. "That way, if I am forced to do things I would not wish to, then at least they might bear it a little easier."

"And if you are not forced to—by some _miracle_ —then all you will have done is to inspire fear and dread in the hearts of your people. Which the Crawler, when it arrives, will thank you most heartily for."

She ignores him, since his advice is not what she wanted to hear, and summons the librarian of the Brightwall Academy. She tells him she will reopen the academy first, and spends a few moments accepting his thanks and gratitude before she broaches the subject she summoned him here for.

She wants everything on the Darkness. Every dusty tome that lies in the vaults of the Brightwall Academy, she wants found, read, and collated. And then she wants it passed on to her Ministry of Information. She intends to publish pamphlets on the threat that Albion faces. She intends to have it distributed to everyone in the kingdom. She hopes, though she is not certain of that hope, that it will help to steel them against what is to come.


	20. 234

**234**

It has been a long while since she has spoken to her brother. This is because she is unsure about what he will say. She fears honesty, almost more than anything else. And she fears his judgement. Because if he does judge her, for what she's done, then it has to be bad. She will be heading down the same dark path he did, and then the Crawler will have won even if her people are still safe.

They unexpectedly meet in the gardens one night. Elsbeth hasn't seen him in a few weeks, and is pleasantly surprised to see that he's gained weight, that he looks less sallow and less palely luminous in the moonlight. She has not ceased her night-time strolls, but Logan has. Another thing that makes her think she's turning into him; she used to be the one who slept soundly at night, and he the insomniac pacing his war room in darkness.

He makes a courtly bow. "Good evening, sister."

"Logan. Excuse me, will you, I …" Why can she not think of an excuse? Finally, she decides just to say, "I would like to be alone."

"In that case I will _not_ excuse you," he says, pleasantly but seriously.

She stops, a few paces away from him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You need company," he says, joining her.

"Logan, I want to be alone."

"So did I," he replied pointedly.

Elsbeth feels a cold, sick feeling seep through her stomach. "I was afraid you were going to say that," she murmurs quietly, suddenly feeling too nauseous to walk anywhere. She collapses onto a bench. "Gods help me."

His gloved palm touches her shoulder. "What is it?"

She swallows back a sob, but cannot conceal the tears beading in her eyes. "I … I did something terrible."

"What?"

"I … I let someone bribe me. And then I- I-"

It's some minutes before she can continue, too ill is she made by her own actions. Logan says nothing, does not attempt comfort, simply waits. Finally she is forced by self-contempt to dry the tears and spill out the story in a monotone.

"A few days ago, Page and I went after Nigel Ferret, a … a would-be crime lord in Bowerstone."

Logan nods. He knows of Ferret. An unfortunate consequence of not funding a police force.

"We left him in a jail cell in his own hideout. But he offered a bribe, and that night, I …"

"You went back."

She nods. "Yes. And I took it, and I put it into the treasury, Logan, I swear I did, that was the only reason I'd ever-"

"I know. But that is not what ails you, is it?"

"No," she whispers. "Because then I thought about what I'd done. I realised that in protecting them in the long term, what I had done in the short term was to put the people of Bowerstone in danger. And my own reputation, I do not deceive myself about that."

He stills. "Did you kill him?"

She nods. "I slit his throat in the night like a common murderer, and dumped his body in the sea. What have I become?"

" _Not_ me," he says instantly, and firmly, tilting her chin up to look at him. "One man does not make you a tyrant. And choosing the wrong road for the right reasons does not make it a bad thing."

"Murdering in cold blood, that is not a bad thing?" she demands shrilly.

"Regretting your choice is natural. We all make mistakes."

"And you've forgiven yourself for yours, have you?"

"Of course not. But list them, Beth, our wrongs. You will find mine far outweigh yours, even including this deed."

"But there must have been a first time!" she bursts out, getting up and pacing away from him. She stops at the far end of the gardens, looking out over the lights of the city.

He waits a moment before he comes after her, and his footsteps are calm and measured. She is crying again, and she hates that. She wouldn't let anyone else see her like this, even Walter or Ben she wouldn't—but then it doesn't matter if Logan sees her at her worst. He doesn't need to have faith in her. She's grateful when he turns her, embraces her, lets her cry before either of them says anything more. The moment her sobs begin to quiet, he releases her and retreats to a respectful distance.

"So you worry you are turning into me then."

"Yes. Or worse, even, Logan. I do not know whether I killed him to protect the people, or because I knew the damage it would do to _me_ , to _my_ reputation."

"Perhaps both. But that is perfectly natural. The mistake you are making is to assume you have failed. Elsbeth, the crucial moment is yet to come."

"And what is that?" she asked despondently, not sure she believes him.

He makes her look at him again, and she is caught by the bright gleam in his eyes, the furious emotion. She cannot—or does not want to—name it. "What you do _next_ ," he says.

"What I do next?"

"Do you intend to kill all those who may damage your reputation?"

"No."

"Do you intend to kill those who threaten your people?"

"Yes."

"Then it appears to me that you have your priorities in order."

She shakes her head in negation. "It is not that simple."

"It _is_. Elsbeth, I thought that my mistake was to hold myself to different moral standards than my people. It was not. Mine was that I lost hope that doing things _the right way_ could be the victorious way. You are not your people. You will never be your people. You are Queen. You will do things that will not be understood. You will do things that will seem immoral, or saintly. Find a new morality."

Elsbeth looks at him, studying him. He really believes what he says. And gods help her, so does she. "Find a new morality," she repeats softly.

He nods. "Precisely so. Make your own choice."

She moves away a little way again, is silent. Logan does not speak either. Eventually she does. "We should both get some sleep."

He inclines his head. "My Queen."

He goes ten paces before she speaks again. "Logan? Thank you."

He comes back to her, kisses her forehead. She smiles, thinking he is the only man now tall enough to do that.


	21. 202

**202**

It's disgusting. But telling himself that, no matter how firmly, how angrily or how contemptuously, or how _despisedly,_ he cannot erase it. At night, the remnants of the Crawler—and they are getting stronger, and worse—whisper that maybe it's not his fault. Half the kingdom is in love with her. All the male courtiers, the guards, look at her admiringly as she passes. All he's done is to fall into the same habit. Beautiful women almost deserve to be looked at in that way. It's a duty of all men to let them know they are desired.

But Logan is not included in this bracket. It is not his duty, and that's why he looks at her in secret. It's why he only lingers in front of her portrait only when alone. It's why he's ashamed and why he does not look her in the eye. He's afraid she'll see something that has no right to exist. It's awful just to feel, let alone for someone else to notice.

It comes in stages.

First, in the admiration. This is nearly platonic. She is a good Queen. Everyday she is proving herself too strong to conform to his expectations. The treasury is filling up, from her own coffers more than from any other source, and she never turns them away when they call to collect her promises. She is beloved, she is honourable, and she is preparing. She is everything he has ever hoped she would be. He is both ashamed and proud to think that at least some of it might be his doing.

Second, is the flattery. She starts to come to him for advice, privately at first, and for trivial matters. How many nobles to invite to a fundraising ball. Then who to dance with at said ball. She relies on his judgement in such cases, and thanks him, and then _invites_ him, and then asks him how he thinks it went. It is difficult not to be pleased—she values his advice, she doesn't hate him, he can even make her laugh sometimes.

Third, is the jealousy. She shares her smiles, her winks, her flirtatious gestures with a young army officer Logan remembers from his trial. Ben Finn. He's handsome, he's in regimentals, he's funny in a teasing way rather than sharp. Logan has no overhanging resentment, for his part. Perfectly natural—he murdered Major Swift. Ben Finn, it is clear, does not share the feeling of forgiveness. Whenever Logan comes into view, he goes rigid with anger, silent and taut with hatred. It is for Elsbeth's sake, and Elsbeth alone, that the two men haven't come to blows yet. It would be a petty, personal fight, fuelled by petty, personal dislike. He knows nothing about Ben Finn, except that he flirts back to Elsbeth, he speaks to her with an utter lack of reverence and dares pretend himself her equal. It galls Logan, and it takes him a long time to realise that it is because _he is_ her equal, and he does not speak to her, look at her, touch her like that. He is not permitted.

Fourth, is the imagination. Is the 'what if'. There are other lands in the world, there must be. And what if she hadn't been his sister? It's his own fault really, because he's trained himself to think of her as his Queen first. He started to the moment she left to begin her revolution, and he can't stop now. So his imagination has posed the question: what if she was someone _else's_ Queen? And the idea is suddenly intoxicating. He can't stop it. The images are so bright, shining in his mind. What if Elsbeth was Queen of a foreign, exotic place? What if they had come together under the banner of an alliance against the Crawler? King _and_ Queen, each in their own right, and assured of mutual victory. From there, it would have been easy. It would have been beneficial for trade. It would have made both kingdoms secure. It would have been expected—royalty married royalty. It would not have been wrong, how could it? She wouldn't be his sister. She would be his-

 _Whore. That's what you want_ , the Crawler snarls in his mind, vicious and gleeful. _Depraved, lecherous Logan. You want her to be your wanton, breathless whore, begging to satisfy your every disgusting desire. You want her on her knees, you want her hot mouth wrapped around your eager-_

 _Enough!_

There's a dark, delighted chuckle from the demon in his head, and then silence. The stretches of silence are getting shorter as the Crawler gets stronger. Moves closer. He will not give into it. He will not imagine Elsbeth as anything but his sister. He will conquer his own dark soul.

But there is a fifth. And the fifth, he cannot control. Because it comes when he sleeps: his dreams. When he was King, he avoided sleep because his nightmares were full of fire and darkness. Screams and blistering laughter. He found those nightmares stopped from the moment Elsbeth had the crown sitting on her head. He is still afraid—but he is afraid because he knows what is coming, and he fears for his own life. But if the Crawler wins, it will not be his fault. So he no longer has nightmares. Instead, when he slumbers, he falls into a honeyed trap of sweetness. They never vary. The two of them are alone, entirely alone. They touch, they talk, they caress, they kiss. They merge their bodies and wallow in bliss as though it is the most normal thing in the world. Natural, nuanced pleasure for both. But these dreams are addicting. All he wants, when he wakes up to the reality that he is not allowed to participate in, is to touch her as he has been allowed to during the twilight hours.

"That, if I then had waked after long sleep,  
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,  
The clouds methought would open and show riches  
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,  
I cried to dream again," he quotes softly, every morning.

When he wakes, he cries to dream again.


	22. 155

**155**

Hacking her way through Silverpines feels like a return to herself, and Elsbeth revels in it. The balverines are tough, and fast, and as deadly as she remembers. Their claws are razor sharp, so much so that it makes them even more dangerous—twice, she does not notice she has been cut until the warm blood drips down onto her hands. Then weakness seeps in, and her hands shake as she administers a healing potion.

Despite this, despite the worried whines of her dog, Elsbeth feels the adrenaline coursing through her body and knows this is what she was meant to do. She is an adventurer, a traveller, a rogue. Especially in this outfit. The thought of going back to the castle in Bowerstone temporarily fills her with dread, but responsibility wins out over selfish desire for freedom. She knows she will go back.

But in the meantime, there are balverines to kill, and there are priceless statues to rescue, and she enjoys every moment of it.


	23. 100

**100**

Inevitably, she finds herself seeking Logan out. Because she is afraid, and she needs to be. In public, even with her friends, she's bright, hopeful, inspirational and always smiles. Sometimes she believes it. She still believes it in private, in the dark—they will win. She is making all the preparations she may, and the treasury is filling with each passing day. They have more than a good chance of survival. All these things give her hope, and she is talented in reflecting that outwards to the rest of Albion. It isn't truly a pretence, but it is exhausting anyway. She determinedly does not allow herself to think of any outcome other than victory, and it is simply keeping her imagination in check that is so wearying.

Especially since, as she suspects, her imagination is no longer just her own. There are stirrings in the back of her mind sometimes. Not whispers, not even echoes of what that thing was, but something. At night, the dog is there, perceptive as all dogs are, and he noses and licks her out of her nightmares, protects her even when they are both asleep. But he can't keep her safe when she's awake.

Which is why, more and more frequently, she is now to be found most evenings in the library with her brother. They don't talk and they are often sat on opposite sides of the room. An outsider might be forgiven for thinking there was a sibling feud in progress, so rarely do they even _look_ at one another, but in fact, Elsbeth is using Logan to draw strength from. She draws on his silence, on his former position, on his knowledge and his mere presence. They are finely attuned to one another, each able to sense the needs of the other. He allows her to be quietly afraid. He does not try to help. He does not even ask her how she is. He does not attempt to entertain her; he does not want to know why she looks for him. And the Queen is sure he knows anyway. She wonders why he never sought _her_ out, why he was so determined to suffer in silence. She also reflects that perhaps she would not have believed him. Or she might even have thought him mad. And even if she _did_ believe him, even if she accepted his reasons for his tyranny, she still could not have comprehended the necessity of them, the magnitude of the threat.

Still, she thinks it bears saying. So one night, she does. She says, "I would have believed you."

She wasn't sure, before she said it, but now that the words float in the air between them, they have the ring of truth. She would have.

"Duly noted," is all he says in reply.

"No, really. You should have told me."

"You were a child."

"I was _not_ a child. I proved that, remember?"

He closes his book with a quiet sigh. "Ah, I wondered when that was going to come up."

"Did you think I'd forgotten?" she demands. "You had my first love killed, Logan."

"Only your first love?"

It is an unexpected question, and it makes her pause in the middle of her brewing anger. "I don't think there'll be another 'love', but … I don't think I could have sent him to his death, if he was the love of my _life_. Though of course, _I_ didn't send him to his death."

"I gave you a choice," her brother returns, unrepentant.

"Fine. Then tomorrow I will give you a choice. Do you want both your legs or both your arms chopped off?'

"That choice would render me powerless whatever my decision. I was attempting to empower you."

"With _what_?" she snaps, shoving her chair backwards and standing.

"Experience. I wanted to prepare you for the choices you would have to make."

"Except I never had to make those choices! I've never had to, even knowing everything I do now! You had no faith in yourself, and you had no faith in me! Hear it now, brother: _I_ will not fail just because you did."

The sound of the door slamming behind her is unbearably loud to one, and goes unheard by the other. The Queen runs to her chambers, where she proceeds to weep passionately, the tears she never shed for Elliot before.


	24. 95

**95**

The silence between them is unbearable to both. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of people in the castle, and if Elsbeth didn't want to see him then she would not have to. And she is so angry. It's only when she thinks of Logan as he was, not Logan as he _is_ , that she is made distraught.

When she is not, she misses him. He is so serious, so grave all the time that it makes her, in response, want to feel flippant and light-hearted. When Ben is around, he is such the joker that it makes the Queen feel there needs to be at least one adult in the room. And she is barely twenty one; she doesn't want to feel so old all the time. When she's with Logan, he can feel old.

For Logan, the fissure between them is like an addiction. Or rather, like giving up one. He gets the shakes; the cold sweats at night; his ears burn for her voice and his eyes hurt straining for her face. But he weathers the pain of it with a straining towards redemption. If this goes on long enough, he might just cleanse himself of the poison in his soul. He wants to see her, wants to wrap her in his arms and whisper to her that he'll never let her go again. That he _can't_ let her go. That she belongs with him and how _dare_ she leave him for as long as she has?

They meet one morning, both on the hunt for an early breakfast. He bows, and looks at her anxiously, or as near to anxious as Logan ever gets. It melts the residual anger in her heart immediately. She nods, doesn't smile, and continues on her way. She knows it'll be enough for him to know.


	25. 90

**90**

She can't hold back a laugh, no matter how hard she tries, even in the face of Logan's glowers. She ruled on the fate of Mistpeak today, naturally returning it to the Dwellers and aborting all of Logan's policies. The logging will stop, hunting will resume, and they will henceforth have dominion over the mountain and its resources. Sabine was pleased, to say the least, and pledged his support anew.

It would have been a successful day all round, had Sabine not _accidentally_ (it certainly was not _her_ design) run into her brother. There had not been much time wasted in the two men coming to blows. And Sabine pretty effortlessly beating Logan soundly. By the time Boulder had hauled his master off and out of the castle, Logan had a black eye, a split lip and a rather large lump rising on his right cheek, a gash from one of Sabine's rings along with it.

Sympathy—in between her laughter—ends up with her tending to him, in the privacy of his quarters. Like a boy trying to be brave, he tries to push away her tenderness with sulkiness and growls.

She persists. "Hold still, brother."

He hisses and draws away when she cleans the injury on his cheek with a damp cloth. "I would if you didn't press so _hard_!"

She rolls her eyes, puts her hand to his jaw and jerks him forwards again. "Stop being such a baby. I have some salve and healing potions -"

"I do not need potions," Logan mutters. "If I take _potions_ my reputation will never survive."

Elsbeth stifles a giggle without much success. "Logan, you just got beaten up by an octogenarian. I am unsure your reputation is still intact at all."

He glares a little more, and Elsbeth decides to gentle her tone, speaking to him as she would to any child. "Hey—if it helps, you're my brave little soldier."

He pushes her hand away. "I think there are limits to what a man has to put up with from his Queen, Your Majesty."

She pulls back, satisfied that his face is clean and will heal well, and smiles softly, "Ah, but not from his sister. _There_ I have all the right in the world to tease you."


	26. 44

**44**

She is going on a quest for her maid one morning when she is, quite literally, snatched. There's the sound of thundering hooves coming up behind her, too close to be anything but a threat, so she looks up. There is a rider coming up behind her, and he does look determined, but he is also her brother. Uncertainty at what he is doing makes her hesitate, and so she is pulled up from the ground and plonked on the saddle, in front of her brother.

"Logan, what are you doing?" she demands.

"I'm kidnapping you," he replies cheerfully.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Are you now? And where might you be planning on stowing me?"

"Millfields."

"Terribly surreptitious," she notes. " _Why_ are you kidnapping me? I have a lot to do."

"I know."

"Then why are you not letting me get on with it?" she asks, annoyed.

"Because I also know how close you are to cracking," he answers assuredly. "I've been there, sister, I know. You're getting impatient with the servants, you're not sleeping well, you're even getting bad-tempered with those closest to you."

She would argue with that, but the dog chooses that moment to release an agreeing yip as he trots alongside the horse. She glares, and his black ears droop to his head, a high-pitched whine escaping him. Logan chuckles as a long sigh escapes his sister.

"I don't see what that proves," she mutters grumpily.

"I'm sure you don't."

"Logan, I am _busy_. I cannot simply take an entire day to-"

"Please, Beth."

Silenced by the quiet plea, she considers. She is right – there is _so much_ to do, but clearly Logan wants her to take a day off, and he seems to think it's important. She leans back into his arms, feeling that if she is being forced to relax, she might as well actually do it. He seems to be in no hurry, so the pace of the horse is leisurely, the rhythm almost soothing. Elsbeth even starts to doze off in the heat, her head pillowed in the space between Logan's neck and shoulder. He's still wearing his armour (when she was a child, she remembers, she thought it was just him. Other people had skin, Logan had armour), but though it's hard, it's not uncomfortable. She still wishes he wasn't wearing it though. It would be nice to see him unwind a little.

"We're here," his voice announces softly in her ear, what seems like a short time later.

She opens her eyes to find that they are, the blue waters of the lake sparkling in the sunlight. Logan dismounts first, holding out a hand for his sister to slide down from the saddle as well. She smiles and accepts his help. That done, he pulls a blanket from a saddlebag, along with a bag of food, two goblets and a skin of wine. Then he bows and gestures for her to sit.

"My Queen."

She quirks an eyebrow, though she cannot help smiling. "If this is how you treat all your kidnap victims, I'll happily be abducted again."

He smiled and brings her hand to his mouth for a quick, soft kiss. "Only for you, Beth, only for you. The others are treated appallingly, I assure you."

She laughs and sits down. Logan pours out the crimson wine and holds out a cup for her to take. "Happy Birthday."

She takes the goblet with a soft smile. "No one else remembered."

"Make it a holiday. Then they'll remember."

She chuckles. "Self-seeking glory? That's not really my preferred style, brother."

He grins. "I doubt anyone will see it as self-seeking glory, Beth. It's actually just giving your people an excuse to make merry and get horrendously drunk."


	27. 43

**43**

The next day the Queen goes to see Logan, mostly to express her gratitude for what he did for her yesterday. In his quarters are his manservant, a chambermaid and a footman lighting the fire. They all straighten and bow.

"My Queen."

"Ma'am."

"Madam."

Logan says nothing, just sends her a tiny smile that would be invisible to anyone else. She smiles and motions towards the open door. "Would you mind giving us a moment?" she asks.

They immediately do go, and Elsbeth and Logan are left alone. Why does the silence feel awkward? She clears her throat free of the blockage and says, "I didn't get a chance to thank you for yesterday."

He smiles then. "There's no need."

"Yes, there is. Had it been up to me, I would not have gone with you. But it was the best thing for me."

"I said I was kidnapping you."

She chuckles gently. "Yes, you did at that." She twisted her mouth. "I was hoping you would do me another favour."

The way he says, "Name it," with complete and almost blind complicity is both warming and a little terrifying.

He is so certain she will do the right thing now; he's no longer advising her, no longer trying to steer her. He's just, as she'd asked him to be, her brother. It gives her the courage to reach out, take his hand – though she is unsure why she has. He isn't wearing his gloves, and his hands are … pale (expected), scarred (again, expected), but soft. It should not be surprising, given that he has always protected his hands with the leather gloves, but it is. A man like Logan should have tough hands, hard fingertips. This idea that his skin is soft is new and shockingly pleasing. She wonders how far the soft skin extends, and then the idea of _that_ makes her blush furiously.

"Beth?"

She blinks. "Hmm?"

"You wanted me to do something for you."

"Oh, yes. I wanted you to supervise the evacuation of Bowerstone. I know the attack isn't coming for another forty days or so, but ideally I would like everyone out at least a week before. I don't care where they go, but as far inland as possible would be good."

It is his turn to blink in a surprised manner. "Supervise the evacuation? Surely someone else would be better suited to-"

She's thought of this, and holds a finger up for him to stop while she explains it. He smiles at the gesture, and does wait for her to tell him. "There isn't. I'm busy with other matters, and my other advisors also have duties of their own to attend to. There needs to be organisation or it will descend into chaos, and I've no one else I trust to handle it."

"The people hate me, Elsbeth."

"Maybe. But they love me. Enough so that if you work under my authority, they will accept yours."

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

"They will," she insists.

"They do not trust me."

She moves to him, puts a palm on his chest and peers earnestly into his face. "Logan. I trust you."

"Whether you do or not makes no difference."

"My trust will be enough for our people."

"They're _your_ people, they're not _our_ people."

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not."

"Yes."

He sighs. "Beth, I know you want to believe that, but you can't-"

She will go over the moment again in her mind, later that day, but she will still be unable to decide what made her do it. Right now, what she's doing is leaning up and kissing him, on the mouth. It could be to just shut him up, it could be to make him _taste_ her faith in him, it could be anything. The kiss lasts one, two, three seconds. Three seconds where her lips are pressed against his. His lips aren't soft; they're chapped and dry from where he gnaws at them constantly. Her heartbeat rockets for as long as they're connected. She pulls away, and finds his chest under her hands is raising and falling sharply.

She locks her eyes to his. "Please."

Wordlessly, he nods.


	28. 6

**6**

She talks an early morning walk through Bowerstone, for the dog's sake. Normally she doesn't need to actually _walk_ him, but there hasn't been much physical activity over the last month or so, and the poor creature is looking at the outside as though he's never going to see it again. So today she has risen even before the servants, and slipped out.

It can be a long walk today; Bowerstone is deserted. Logan has performed his task admirably. There are temporary barracks set up in the pubs, in the larger of the stores, ready for the troops. They should start moving in within two days. All the ordinary citizens are gone – there are no calls, no hails, no 'good morning, ma'am's'. She finds she doesn't miss them. It's a strange kind of anonymity; not really anonymity in the true sense, she supposes. If they were here, they would know her.

Her feet take her in what she thinks is an aimless direction, but in fact turns out to be a specific one. The Old Quarter, in which she finds a bench, and on the bench she finds her brother.

He rises. "Your Majesty."

She sits, and then pats the wooden slats for him to retake his seat. He does so, and without asking—it doesn't _need_ to be asked for—puts an arm around her shoulders. She turns her face into his shoulder, her eyes closed. The dog, knowing he's been abandoned temporarily, runs around the immediate area, sniffing and barking, tail wagging and generally having a marvellous time.

"It's almost here," Elsbeth whispers. "I can feel it … it's like oil on my skin."

He nods silently. He knows. He feels it too, and they've both been having nightmares. The castle has been echoing to one or the other's screams over the past several evenings.

"What about the people in Aurora?" she asks. "They've got one garrison— _one_ garrison, Logan, it's not enough to protect them -"

"But your concern is bigger. There are more people here."

She pulls back, frowning. "That doesn't mean they deserve to be sacrificed just to -"

"Of course not," he soothes. "But you knew this meant hard decisions. I tried, Beth, I'm sorry …"

"The greater good," she whispers. "That's what you taught me. Protecting Albion is the greater good. But Aurora _is_ Albion, Logan. It is."

He sighs then, loudly and for a long time. It isn't what he would have done, but as they've discovered, Elsbeth is a very different monarch to him. She is too compassionate to make hard decisions, or she should be. And yet somehow the treasury is full and the people love her. There is only one word for that Logan can think of: magic. His magical little sister.

"This is Father's bench, isn't it? I remember him taking us here, when we were children."

"I'm surprised. You were very young."

"He used to live here, didn't he?"

"Yes."

She looks around at the empty space, and the tattered buildings around it. Despite all of them being new, they somehow still look centuries old. "It's not very imposing, is it?"

"Should it be?"

"We call ourselves royalty, Logan. We might have both been born in the castle, but we don't exactly have a regal heritage behind us. Have we any right to the privilege we enjoy?"

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. "We don't have rights, Elsbeth. We don't have the right to vote, we don't have the right to choose our own occupations, we don't have the right to go where we wish when we wish. We don't have the right to be free of people like Hobson," he adds, to which she chuckles briefly. "Father did not take the crown because of a desire for power. As King he could lead and guide the people in a way that would have been impossible any other method. And because he chose it, we were destined for it. So yes, we have many privileges. We have far fewer rights."

"I doubt most people would see it that way."

"You're not most people."

They walk back to the castle hand in hand.


	29. 1

**1**

Elsbeth is not going to sleep tonight. How could she? Jasper has told her to, Walter has told her to, Ben, even Hobson expressed some concern when she declared her intention to stay awake all night. Yet how could it be otherwise? She has sent them all away, ordered _them_ to sleep.

There are lights on in Bowerstone. No people, of course, but she ordered the lamps—in homes, factories, schools—lit anyway. The sun will not rise tomorrow, and when the Darkness arrives she is determined it will not see a kingdom already in submission. It will see 'the light that burns' everywhere it turns its inhuman eyes. She's heartened to see the warm gold glinting out of every building, and it helps to stop her biting her nails. She glances at her hands. They're down to the quick anyway.

There is just one more problem. One more thing that until thirty minutes ago, she was absolutely confident of. The treasury. As of this morning, it had six million, five hundred thousand gold pieces in it. Plus a few spare. But she has relied on Hobson's accounting thus far, and now she's not sure. She should have done it herself. She should have made _certain_.

She glances over at the clock. It's coming up to midnight. A few seconds later she is belting a robe over her nightdress and heading for the door. The dog briefly lifts his head up with a whine.

"Stay."

Two minutes after that, the Queen is entering the treasury, confronted by mountains of shimmering gold. She is walking towards it even though she doesn't want to. She doesn't have time to count all of this. She will probably die tomorrow—is this really how she wants to spend her last evening?

But there is no one here to pull her away now, and no one she would listen to even if there were someone else here. So she sits, cross-legged at the foot of the mountain, and begins with tears rolling down her face.

Somewhere around two a.m., the doors to the treasury open again. Elsbeth has her back to the door, but she is well aware that it can only be one person, and her spine curves in relief. _Logan. Please. Please come to me. Save me from this_.

He does, crouching behind her and putting his arms all the way around her. He slowly takes the gold from her hands, then stands, bringing her up with him. Through her thin pyjamas, his chest plate is cold, but she huddles into him anyway.

"Well … this is not a good idea, my Queen."

"Couldn't stop myself," she whispers.

He turns her around to face him. "Beth, there are so many things could you do, even if you do not intend to sleep. Which, by the way, is what you should be doing."

"Like what?" she asked, a bitter smile gracing her lips. "What is there to do?"

"Anything."

"What would you do?" she asks, glancing at his mouth. "If you knew you were going to die tomorrow?"

"Whatever I wanted to."

She nods, then kisses him with no more warning that that. It is soft, gentle, experimental. But it cannot be mistaken for a kiss with no more meaning than an affectionate gesture from sister to brother. Logan goes taut in her arms, and she waits for him to pull away and leave—she won't mind, if he does. But if she can do anything tonight, that was what she wanted. But she doesn't think he will. He's gone tight and strained because he's trying to hold it all in. Because there's still that voice in _his_ head that's insisting this is a very, very bad idea. She helps to silence that voice with another kiss; this one to his neck, feeling his pulse jump under her mouth.

"Well, this is what I want, brother," she whispers. "Will you give it to me?"

His eyes are closed when she looks back up into his face, his hands around her waist clenched. She will most likely have bruises from where his fingers are now, bruises which she hopes will be added to in a moment. Without opening his eyes, Logan leans forward and down, unerringly fitting his mouth to hers. The kiss is not hurried or rushed; though time is not infinite for this, there are enough hours before the dawn that won't be coming. She presses herself closer, feeling her body ready itself for him. His hands slip up under her pyjama top, gloved fingertips grazing along her skin so tenderly and so hesitantly. She's convinced she might really break if he treats her any more like glass; under his touch, it feels like her flesh is melting. She pulls her arms down from his shoulders, fingers finding the buckles of his armour and tugging at them ineffectually.

Logan chuckles and pulls his mouth from hers. "Having trouble, Beth?"

Without waiting for her to answer, he takes her hands and shows her how to undo the chest plate. After the first one, he resumes kissing her, sliding his hands up her bare back boldly this time, pulling her towards his body. At the same time, he deepens the kiss, coaxing open her mouth to admit his tongue. She moans; she can't help it, at the sensation, and at his taste. Finally, all the buckles of his chest plate are undone, and it swings open on one side, a hinge to the torso underneath. Logan shrugs it off, and it hits the floor with a loud clang, but neither stops. Elsbeth's fingers scrabble eagerly at the layer underneath, only to be defeated—there are at least two more items of clothing she must remove before she can touch him. A little Heroic strength helps, and the buttons on his jacket give way completely, popping off and rolling across the floor. Now only in a shirt, a shiver races over his skin when her hands slide under it. She does not touch him nervously, though she has never done this before. Her brother is a well-built man, and she feels the evidence of it now, her fingers caressing the ridged muscles of his stomach and up, then down again. She delights in the way they tense and quiver under her touch. Wanting to _see_ as well as touch now, she tugs the white cotton all the way off, and pulls away from his mouth, baring him to her gaze. He's … beautiful, that's the only way she can put it. Pale, perhaps, but his chest his criss-crossed with darker lines and slashes; scars. He matches her, she thinks with a smile. She traces them with her fingers, following them with her mouth. His skin burns under her lips.

He groans lowly. "Beth …"

Feeling the score needs to be settled, she takes his hands in hers, tugs his gloves off. Her body wants to be felt by him now, not cold leather. Once she has, she puts his hands exactly where she wants them, her eyes focused on his. With the hem of her top in his hands, there is only one thing for Logan to do, so he does it, pulling the top up and off. She waits to feel vulnerable, ashamed perhaps for baring herself so brazenly to him, but there is none of that. He kisses her again, then moves his mouth down to her neck, sucking at the juncture of her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in his hair; something she's wanted to do, she realises, for many weeks now—really tousle it and make it messy, break the rigidity. With his hands, he strokes over the swell of her breasts, tracing ever-decreasing spirals. Elsbeth feels her nipples pucker, stiffening into hard peaks that go harder still when he touches them. He's not very gentle; between forefinger and thumb he pinches, flicks them quickly and then slowly. She moans aloud and pushes her chest further into his hands. Her lower belly presses against the hard bulge in his trousers, and she knows what that means but she can't think straight when his hands are replaced by his mouth. Fire leaps from her breasts to between her legs, and she can feel moisture weeping down her inner thigh. Logan makes a quick flicking motion, and her pyjama trousers pool around her ankles. The Queen is completely naked to him now, and his hands grab her backside, lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist with a wanton moan.

"Bedchamber?"

He shakes his head; it is at the other end of the castle, and the need to be inside her is desperate. "Too far." He kisses her again, biting her bottom lip. "Besides, I've a better idea."

He walks to the mountain of gold behind her, lying her on the bed of coins. Then, he kisses her neck, her chest—stopping to lavish a little more attention on her breasts, naturally—her stomach, then lower. Elsbeth's heart is pounding; she's heard of this, but only heard of it, and could never quite believe it was anything more than whores' boasting. She's trembling, suddenly scared but oh-so-aroused. Logan's fingertip circles the slippery bud of nerves he finds there, then presses. She twitches in pleasure, another moan escaping from her throat. It's followed almost immediately by a cry; his finger has been replaced by his mouth. His teeth hold her clitoris between them, while his tongue sweeps over it mercilessly. It hurts and it's wonderful and it's fire and it's bliss, and she bucks up into his mouth. Her hands go down to entwine themselves in his hair again, simultaneously pushing his face closer and trying to pull him away because it's too exquisite for her not to lose her mind. Tension's coiling in her muscles, rising up from the base of her back, a knot that is being pulled tighter and tighter. When her entire body is hard in expectation, Logan's index finger rams inside her, tearing through her maidenhead. The pain might be enough to wake her from the pleasure trance, but he sucks hard with his mouth at the same time. The explosion—it can only be called that—rips through her completely, wiping thought or awareness completely from her mind. She does not hear the scream of pleasure that echoes around the treasury, nor see Logan stand briefly to remove the last items of his clothing; in the aftermath, she even forgets to breathe.

When she opens her eyes, she opens her limbs for him as well. He's utterly magnificent naked. She feels her eyes should not be glued to the rod of flesh rising up from between his legs, but they are. It's like nothing she's ever seen before, but instantly she knows it is for her, it has always been meant for her. Her inner muscles quiver with need for it, and she whispers his name in a pleading tone. She needs him inside her, needs him to give her a sense of wholeness. Logan settles himself on top of her, positioning herself at her entrance.

"It will hurt."

"I need it," she moans, breathless and begging. "I need you, please, please, Logan. _Inside me_."

His mouth catches hers again, and he stops any noise of pain she makes as he pushes into her. He's right, it _does_ hurt, but it's the best pain she's ever felt. She feels herself stretching to accommodate this hard length of flesh, her fingernails digging into the skin of his back slightly. But it never pushes too far, it never demands more than she can give—and after a short time, they're completely joined, hips pressed into one another. The gold underneath her is icy; the man over her is burning; the searingly hot cock inside her is pulsing. It is almost enough to make her climax again, right there and then. His expression is tight with effort, his teeth clenched. She is _so_ tight, and _so_ wet, and _so_ perfect it is all he can do not to do the same. She shifts, her legs wrapping more fully around him. Any lingering soreness is gone now, leaving only the coals of pleasure banked high, glowing and waiting to be stoked into life. He pulls back slightly, then thrusts back into her. She mewls with need and begins moving her pelvis in time with his as he sets a steady and powerful rhythm. Each time he plunges into her, she feels him press against the opening of her womb, filling her so completely and deliciously it makes her head spin. Her breath is ragged now, her moans increasing in volume and frequency, interspersed with sharper cries when he buries his mouth in her neck. He kisses and licks and sucks and bites, and each time he does, she whimpers his name. It drives his lust and desire for her onwards, which in turn drives his pleasure. He's close now, feeling climax begin stirring in his groin, but he wants her to come with him.

He leans up, takes hold of her legs, spreads them and begins hard, deep, fast thrusts, hammer-blows of his hips. They take her by surprise, and he knows it's cruel, because no one's first experience should be like this, but she's too much, too yielding and willing to gobble up anything he gives her. Elsbeth only arches her back and slams her own hips back at him.

"Look," he rasps, "look at us."

She does, her eyes—when they aren't shut against the intensity of the experience—going to the place when brother and sister are joined. She watches him saw into her, slick and glistening with her juices. It should be shameful, and evil and sick—but instead it is more perfect than anything else could ever be. Surrendering to the sweet sin of it she shudders into orgasm, over the crest and down to the black oblivion on the other side. Logan follows not a second afterward, a long, low groan of her name on his lips. He spills into her in white-hot spurts, flooding her with everything in him.

In the afterglow, all Elsbeth can see is white light.


	30. Day 7

**\+ 7**

The statue is very lifelike, considering the fact it has been knocked up in a week. But Elsbeth cannot look at it without pain. She barely remembers her father, and now she has no surrogate father either. Walter was always there. Always keeping her on the straight and narrow, always making sure she was as prepared as she could be. She was a fighter before she was a Hero, and that was because of Walter. The victory doesn't feel hollow because of his loss, and she knows that it's how he would have wanted to go out—in battle, all guns blazing and completely free. She still can't make herself think she had no choice though. There might have been something, surely? A spell or potion that would have evicted the Crawler without destroying Walter in the process.

All this is idle speculation. Jasper can tell what's she's thinking, and he does his best to comfort her. There's a lot of "You did all you could, madam," and "Sir Walter wouldn't have wanted you to mourn for too long, Your Majesty," going on.

Ben, too, does his best to cheer her up. When they're outside in the gardens for the unveiling of the statue, he says, "I think old Walter would've liked it out here. He was always a fan of looking … tall and … stony. I can imagine what he'd say if he was here now."

She cracks a smile. "'Shut up, Ben'."

Ben laughs. "Exactly!"

The brief moment of levity gone, they all start to drift away from her. Sabine goes first, returning to his own 'castle'. Kalin promises that her people will never forget. Elsbeth hopes that they will forget, that they will move on from the Darkness and heal properly.

"Walter was right about you," Page smiles. "You're a Hero in every sense of the word. The Hero Albion needed."

"What will you do now?" the Queen asks. They are still not _quite_ friends, still more allies than anything. Page is still very reserved. Not that anyone can blame her in that; she has spent so long trying not to trust anyone that it must be difficult to make friends.

Page's answer is indicative of this. "I will continue to serve you the best way I can. I belong down in the city. The people there will always need help." She bows. "Goodbye, my Queen."

Logan speaks next. They have not talked all week, and she knows he is avoiding her. It's perhaps easier for him, than admitting that things have been irrevocably altered between them. At least he's looking at her now though, and the open admiration in his voice warms her from the inside. "You have done what I thought impossible. You are the ruler I could never be." His next sentence would be casual, light. Except Elsbeth can hear the underlying reason. "But you don't need me anymore, and Albion will heal easier without me."

She stares at him. He cannot be serious. Walter is dead, her friends are leaving her one by one and now he is too? Too aware of everyone else still around them, she can't confront him about it either. She wants to hit him again. How dare he? With the first edge of her anger blunted she thinks: Fine. If he wants to go and pretend it's for a noble reason, let him go. At least Ben will never-

"Well, Queen, old chum, ruler supreme, pal." His words are warm, but his face serious. "You did it. You saved the kingdom!"

 _Yes, yes I did_ , she thinks. _So don't leave me!_ Because that _will_ make her victory hollow, if she has no one to share it with. She needs adventure like she needs air—if they go, then she's left with Hobson and his political toadying.

Ben spreads his hands with an apologetic gesture, like he can hear what she's thinking and is going anyway. "But now it's my turn to say goodbye. I'm not cut out to be a general. And I think I'd like to start travelling again." Then, oblivious to the salt he's pouring in the Queen's emotional wounds, he turns the cheeky grin back on. "Or _maybe_ I'll see if Page needs any help down in Industrial!"

Page rolls her eyes, and the Queen casts hers towards Walter's statue, tears in them. She doesn't want to be alone. And she certainly, when the seer appears, does not want to talk to Theresa. But she wipes her cheeks and reminds herself that this was her destiny. It's not a comfort.

Everything around the two of them—except the dog, she notices—has gone black and white, still. Theresa motions to it. "This is the world as it could have been. Devoid of colour. Devoid of life. It is thanks to you that it isn't so, and you did it without becoming a tyrant. The people love you, and you have banished the shadow of your brother's reign."

She feels the familiar sting. Logan did the best he could. She had intended, after all of this, to help him rebuild his reputation. And now she can't, because he wants to let the land heal. What about _his_ healing? What about hers?

Theresa talks, and the Queen does not listen. She knows what she's done. All she wants to know is, "Aren't you going to tell me my future?"

"The future will reveal itself when it is ready to do so," is all the seer says.

Elsbeth jumps when everything leaps back into life again, and the guns keep firing.

* * *

 **There will be a sequel, _Traitor's Keep_ , keeping sort-of in line with the DLC. **


	31. Day 32

**\+ 32**

It takes astonishingly little time for Logan's preparations for departure. He's taking a ship, a company of men, enough supplies for three years away from Albion and charts of the known world. And yet all of these things have been arranged in less than a month. Too little time for so much, and it's clear to Elsbeth that he is running away. He feels ashamed. She has given orders for him to be given everything he needs, of course. If he wants to leave her then let him. Except now she's wondering if she shouldn't stop it anyway.

He sets sail on the morning tide, and she can't stand it anymore. She needs to at least try to talk him out of it. The last month has given her a taste of what her rule will be like without him, and she does not want more of it.

After the formal farewell dinner that evening, she goes to his chambers. He's packing the last of his personal effects, and doesn't comment when she enters without knocking. There are no servants present to witness him tensing and then consciously relaxing. He's still aware of her every breath, just as she is his. Idly, while she is still trying to think of what to say, she peers into the nearest packing case. On top is a miniature of her, so whatever is driving him away, he does not want to forget her. It gives her the courage to speak.

"Please don't go."

"I meant what I said. You do not need me anymore, Elsbeth."

"That isn't true," she says, fiddling with the pages of a book that lies open on his desk. He says nothing, so the Queen sighs loudly. "Logan, we haven't talked in weeks."

"We have."

"Not properly. Not about … that night."

He stills.

"Are you ashamed?"

"Are you?"

"No," she says honestly. "It was the right thing to do. Neither of us expected to survive, and under those circumstances actions don't have consequences."

"But we did survive."

"So you are ashamed."

He sighs. "Beth, I … I took advantage of you. My own sister and I defiled you. It was disgusting and selfish and wrong. It's against nature."

"Is that how you really feel, or how you think you should?" When she says nothing, she moves forward, until she is able to wrap her arms around his waist. "Because I don't feel defiled."

He puts his hands on hers for a moment, but then unwraps them from himself. "You have been, even if you don't feel it."

"That's my decision," she says firmly, hands on her hips now.

"And leaving is _mine_."

"You're running away!" she accuses loudly. "Things have changed between us and you know they can't change back, so you're running away!" She curses. "I can order you to stay in Bowerstone."

"But you won't," he replies with great assurance.

There is another silence, and when she next speaks, her voice is choked with tears. "Logan, I … I don't want to lose you. Not again."

He moves to her, pressing his lips to her forehead, and then kissing her softly. She responds, and deepens the kiss, though it remains tender and loving. After that, he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers.

"You won't."

She does not seem comforted, but does wipe her tears away and seems determined. "Alright. I'll let you go on one condition."

"Which is?"

"Think about it. You made me feel more alive than I ever have before, Logan, and I want to feel that again. So go, and travel or do whatever you want to do, but think about it. And come back in time for my birthday. And give me your answer then."

"That's eight months away."

"Which should give you plenty of time, don't you think?" she asks, looking fierce and tenacious.

"You won't feel the same way by then," he promises.

The look she gives him is full of challenge. "Try me."

* * *

 **There will be a sequel, _Traitor's Keep_ , following the DLC (in the beginning), and featuring more of these two.**


End file.
